


Three Months, Subjective Time

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Character Study, Episode: s03e01 Smith and Jones, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for Smith and Jones. The Doctor didn't go back for Martha right away. He needed some time to think, first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Months, Subjective Time

All done. Right as rain. Upside-down-rain, upside-down rain on the moon, no more Judoon platoon or plasmavores or slabs to interrupt his honestly not-looking-for-trouble wandering. Honestly. Really, he meant it this time. A smile and wave goodbye to almost-Doctor Martha Jones and he was staying on his own because it was just better that way. Honestly it was.

Of course, there was the matter of the tie. But that could have been anything, really. That was his story and he was sticking to it. At some point in his future he was passing by and decided, at random, to take off his tie in front of her before he'd met her, which wasn't normally the kind of thing he'd do without a reason. Even if it was the kind of thing he'd normally do as a cheap trick. A cheap trick that might have a reason behind it, but the moment his thoughts wandered that way there was that sinking feeling and he was really not going to go back.

He twisted a dial and stubbornly punched a button that landed him two galaxies and thirty million years away. Trouble, that's what he needed. No, not trouble. Entire lack of trouble. That particular old habit needed, if not to die, to go on holiday for a bit. Involving himself meant meeting people who he might just want to invite to stay, and he really really really wasn't doing that anymore. Donna was wrong, he didn't need anyone. He was fine on his own.

One month later, subjective time, he stared at his ties, wondering which one it was. If he put the right one on, what would happen? Maybe he should stop wearing ties. Or never go back to London, or that particular part of London. He liked his ties, though, and he liked London. And he wasn't thinking about how much he'd liked Martha Jones, who'd kept her head and saved his life. That he was definitely absolutely not thinking about, though maybe it was the purple tie with the little butterflies on it. That was a nice tie. Why had he would he have will he have taken it off? 

Damn his curiosity. If he hadn't been curious, hadn't wondered, he wouldn't have checked himself in to Royal Hope Hospital. He wouldn't have fried his sonic screwdriver and ruined his shoes, wouldn't have had most of his blood sucked out, wouldn't have been nearly dead and Martha wouldn't have had to pull him back to life, which meant he wouldn't still be thinking about her now. He'd made another sonic screwdriver and bought new shoes. Maybe he really should get rid of all his ties. Change was good, right? Terrible things, old habits. Old patterns. Do the same thing too long and it starts causing problems. Keep letting people close and they keep leaving, and of course it hurts more and more and the best thing to do is stop thinking about it. Stop doing it. No more curious, stubborn, wonderful humans, no more families, just him and the TARDIS, traveling the universe, all on his own. He wasn't thinking about Rose crying on the beach, wasn't thinking about an empty Council flat he'd had no business haunting and cleaning out the refrigerator and sitting in Rose's old bedroom, missing them all so much his hearts ached unbearably. Jackie would have laughed if she'd seen him taking out their rubbish. He missed Jackie. He'd even welcome her slapping him again. But it was better this way, their happy family safe, together. It was better. 

Distraction, that's what he needed. No more of this sulking about. He set the coordinates for somewhere that wasn't twenty-first century Earth and plunged headlong into trouble. 

The problem with humans, and some races really thought it was a problem but he usually didn't get along with those races at all, was that humanity was bloody everywhere. Once they got off the ground, properly colonizing, they touched every star in the sky. Oh, they changed, no mistake, but that human curiosity and stubbornness always drove them on, poking their noses into everything the universe had to offer, for good and ill. Some Time Lords had considered them to be outright pests, which was one of the many reasons why the Time Lords never got along with him and he'd never got along with them. The Great Human Empires, rising and falling and rising again, all starting from this tiny planet at the edge of their galaxy. Of all the impossible things, their success seemed the most impossible, which was what had drawn him to them in the first place. After hundreds of years, Earth was far more his home than Gallifrey ever had been. 

He wasn't thinking about Christmas dinner. He wasn't.

Six weeks later, subjective time, he limped into the TARDIS and collapsed into bed. Torture was not his favorite way to spend the weekend, and they'd quite ruined his favorite new suit, a grey one with black pinstripes, with their nasty whip. He refused to think about Martha Jones' gentle, caring touch, and how it would be nice to have someone around to help when he could barely lift his head and his back was simply killing him and his shirt was sticking to his wounds and that really wasn't helping him heal. He forced himself up and hissed loudly as he peeled off his clothes. 

His tie had been black, with iridescent squiggles. Not the right one, then. He wasn't going to be wearing that one again. At least his coat was undamaged. 

Maybe he wasn't supposed to go back. Maybe it hadn't been him at all. It could have been someone else that looked just like him, or a shapeshifter, a proper one, though that was just the kind of trouble he wouldn't be able to resist poking his nose into, someone gadding about London looking just like him and taking off ties at very nice young almost-Doctors. Or the keenly observant Martha Jones could have been entirely mistaken.

Twelve days later, subjective time, he set the controls for Earth, but not the twenty-first century, thank you very much. Fifty-first, which was tempting fate, but he did it anyway. Jack wasn't there, of course. Just before he'd regenerated, he'd felt what Jack had become, and if he hadn't already been dying he'd have felt sick. He'd never told Rose the truth, and for some reason she'd never asked. It was easier to move on, to take his new body and new optimism and only look forward and feel genuinely happy for the first time in ages. To run hand-in-hand with her, to and from trouble.

He had dinner, then spent the next morning strolling through the shops. He picked up a few odds and sods that could be adapted into replacement parts for the TARDIS, and then bought a lovely blue crystalline sculptform. His appreciation for beauty was strong these days, and he also particularly liked that color blue. There had never been much blue in his life on Gallifrey. Reds and silvers and oranges, vivid, hot colors for such a staid civilization. The opposite of the cool, hypnotic blue of the Vortex, the blue of his TARDIS, the blue of the Earth sky near twilight. He looked up at the domed roof of the city and sighed.

Find someone, Donna had said. Someone to stop him. He seemed to have stopped himself, though. Oh, he'd helped save some lives, taken down a tyrant here or there, but his hearts weren't in it. What good was having all of space and time at his fingertips when there was no one to share it with? What good was going on and on, the last of his people? He used to push against them, push and push and push himself on, but now...

He looked deep into the sculptform, memorizing the complex whirls and patterns that ran through it, freezing its beauty in his mind, and then he let it slip through his fingers. It shattered with a tremendous noise, blue shards of crystal in a blast pattern around his feet, radiating outwards. Everyone stared at him. Two maintenance robots skittered over and began to sweep up the mess, and he moved on. Later, he found tiny shards embedded in his socks and trousers, and crystalline grit in the soles of his shoes.

If he hadn't visited Royal Hope Hospital, thousands of people would have died. Martha Jones would have died. The Judoon would never have found the plasmavore, and would have killed everyone in the hospital as a result. It was good, that he'd gone. He thought of her enthusiasm, her determination, and his hearts ached a bit at the thought of her death. He was glad he'd met her, saved her. He wanted to see her again, to bask in that oh-so-human energy she had. He'd wound down on his own, slowly but surely, the quiet draining him as surely as the plasmavore had. 

One trip. He could give her one trip, certainly. It didn't mean he had to grow attached to her, not so much that it would hurt when she left him. 

The next day, he picked out a blue tie. Dark blue, with little hollow squares, like TARDIS-prints. (Footprints don't look like a boot.) He stood in an alleyway and watched her family squabble. And then she turned his way, and he smiled, and let her follow after him.


End file.
